


Noir

by theDovahkiin (Trebla)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: 1920s, AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, Mobsters, don't panic about the selfcest it's mostly implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trebla/pseuds/theDovahkiin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Private Investigator Booker DeWitt is drunk and broke. It looks like there's no way out, until he receives an unexpected letter from a mysterious source. If he does his job right, all his debts will be forgiven. Now all he has to do is kidnap the daughter of the most powerful crime boss in the city. No sweat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Small (and Hungover) Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is the start of what I hope is going to be a wonderful fic about gangsters and good things. Yes, I am also aware that "Noir" is the most cliche name in the history of anything ever. Just...roll with it. Titles aren't a strong point of mine.  
> Anyway, this chapter is a little short, but I'm working on more! I hope you enjoy!

Knocknocknock.

“Mmh…”

Knocknocknock.

“Uhh…”

“Mister DeWitt! Mister DeWitt!”

“Hnngh…” The man belonging to the name being shouted from outside his door cracked open a red-rimmed eye. The dingy blankness of his two-room apartment stared back at him, challenging his will to even open his eyes in the morning. The incessant banging on the door melded with the throbbing in his head, and DeWitt decided that it was worth braving the dangerous three feet to the door, if only to ease one of the many pains assaulting him.  
Nearly tripping on the empty beer bottles next to his bed, he hauled himself upright, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden wave of vertigo. Thankfully, the knocking had trailed off, allowing the disgruntled man to shuffle in relative peace. Who the hell wants to talk to me at this hour? He wondered grumpily. A preemptive glance at his watch showed the time was actually two-thirty P.M.   
“Oh.” And with that, he flung the door open.  
A young boy jumped back in surprise, his fist still raised to bang on the door again. Booker must have looked fairly intimidating, because the boy’s eyes widened substantially, and he looked poised to run.  
DeWitt tried to marshal his face into a more accommodating expression. “What?” he asked. The kid jumped, seeming to remember his business, and pulled a folded piece of paper from the messenger bag on his shoulder.  
“Booker DeWitt?” he asked hesitantly. Booker resisted the urge to roll his eyes- if it wasn’t me, why would I answer the damn door?- and gave a curt nod instead, holding his hand out. The boy gave him the letter and left without even waiting for a tip. Booker shrugged and went back inside. He wasn’t about to go chasing down some shortie just to give him an Eagle. Kid could get his own tips if he wanted ‘em.   
“Now, who wants my attention so badly?” he asked himself, sitting back down on his ragged mattress.   
The letter was printed on crisp, expensive-looking stationery, with a wax seal. Booker frowned as he stared at it. The insignia was the letters R.L., no one he recognized. And besides, who even sent wax-sealed letters anyway? It was 1922, for god’s sake.  
Expecting a new headache to add to his troubles, Booker ripped open the seal with a sigh. Inside was a carefully typed letter that would change his life forever.

“Mr. DeWitt,

It has come to our attention that you have fallen on rather...difficult times. We offer our most sincere condolences, and feel so moved about the matter that we have a proposition to offer you.  
There is a girl we have an interest in meeting. She is the daughter of a rather important man, and you would be well rewarded for your time. Your job is simple; Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt.  
Further instructions will be forthcoming should you accept our generous offer.  
Yours,  
-R.L.”

Booker stared at the black print under his fingers. All his debts…repaid? Whoever this “R.L.” was, they clearly had a great deal of influence. Which was why Booker felt suddenly wary of the boon he held in his hands. If this person was so powerful, then why did they pick the drunkest, poorest P.I. they could find? Was it so that he owned them something, should he take the job?  
Yet, that still didn’t make sense. Booker DeWitt was fairly good at his job, but he’d had almost no customers over the course of the last year, and those paid so little that by the next week he was eating out of the garbage again. He had no influence, no money, not even a blanket on his bed.  
And yet…  
If this R.L. could live up to his word…he could get back on his feet again. Stop drinking, maybe get a real job, clean up the apartment a little and reopen under another name. He could change everything.  
Booker twisted his face into a grimace, staring at the letter. “Smells like a trap,” he grumbled. “But what choice do I have? I…I’ll do it.”

There was a knock at the door.


	2. The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker receives information on his target- and isn't exactly ecstatic at the prospect.

Booker jumped, startled by the sudden noise. Placing the letter carefully on the only other piece of furniture in the room he actually used, a rickety wooden desk already covered in papers advertising his hideous luck, Booker went to answer the door.  
Another messenger boy stood there, though this one didn’t seem nearly as frightened of the unshaven man before him. “Mr. DeWitt?” he asked, holding out another letter. Bemused, Booker accepted it, and even managed to give the kid an Eagle before he scampered away.  
This new letter was the exact copy of the old, but when Booker opened it, a picture fell out onto the floor. He picked it up and examined it.  
It was a portrait of a young woman, holding a painting of the Eiffel Tower. Her clothes seemed a little old for the current fashion- or at least, what precious little Booker knew of it- being a white blouse and a long skirt that reached to mid-calf. She was smiling so brightly it almost made his eyes hurt. Booker flipped the photo over and almost dropped it in shock. The caption, written in the same hand as his name on the front of the letter, said: Elizabeth Comstock, Aged Twenty.  
“Comstock...” Booker sank onto his mattress and rubbed his face. Zachary Comstock was the most powerful and ruthless crime boss in the city. His reach extended far beyond the boundaries of the shadowy world in which most operated; he had more policemen in his pocket than Eagles, and it was rumored that he was even under the protection of the Chief of Police himself. It would certainly make sense, as the man had never once been fingered for many of the blatant activities that he and his crew performed, sometimes right under the noses of the officials of their fair Columbia. Booker tried to stay out of it. Still, one tended to hear things. He recalled something about the death of the boss’ wife just recently, murdered at the hands of Daisy Fitzroy herself, the rumors said. Daisy Fitzroy, leader of the vicious gang Vox Populi, was another Booker tried to keep out of the way of. He had no desire to be smothered in his bed while he slept by jumping into a war he had no place in.  
Yet here he was. Booker shook his head and turned his attention to the letter itself. “Wait a second...” he paused, staring at the signature- R.L., same as the last- on the bottom of the note. “How did he...” Booker glanced around quickly, half expecting to discover some silent eavesdropper who had planned so perfectly the sending of the material when he had not even responded to the letter yet.  
“I must be drinking too much...” he muttered, shaking himself and focusing on the type printed in the letter. It’s funny, he thought. I don’t remember there being mention of Comstock having a daughter. And now I’m going to kidnap her.  
The letter gave more details about the girl Elizabeth. It was said that she lived in the heart of what was generally regarded as Comstock’s territory, well-guarded and nigh inaccessible. However, his new employer revealed, Columbia’s annual Raffle and Fair would certainly draw more than one dutiful patrolman away in search of good food and better company. If ever there was a time to strike, R.L. said, it would be then. Besides, he added, it was thought that the girl didn’t have a particularly...loving relationship with her father. Getting her to leave might be simpler than expected.  
Booker racked his brain. Simple was good, and the fair would provide ample cover to make a quick getaway if need be, but when was the damn thing again...?  
He suddenly had a flashback of a few days prior, where he had been puking in an alleyway. As he leaned over to dump the contents of his stomach on his shoes, his hand had been pressed to a tattered flyer, advertising the fair. Ah! His face lit up as it came to him. It was tomorrow.  
“Good. Gives me plenty of time to sleep off this hangover,” Booker said to himself. He carefully refolded the second letter with the picture inside it, and placed both next to his pistol, which he kept under his pillow. Just because he had nothing to steal didn’t mean he appreciated strangers attempting to rob him anyway.  
Laying back, Booker stared at the wooden ceiling and pictured the girl’s face in his mind. She seemed innocent enough; what benefit could be gained by kidnapping her, other than a ransom and a potential target on your back as the city’s largest crime boss attempted to kill you for stealing his daughter in the first place? He pursed his lips and closed his eyes resolutely on the matter. No worry. He could think on it tomorrow, when he was the one with the target.


	3. Haunted Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker sets out to find the location of his target. He gets a little lost along the way. Does this place even exist...?

Thank god it wasn’t raining. Booker adjusted his hat and slipped around a gaggle of women, flowers bursting from their hats like bouquets. Rain usually made it easier to give an unwanted follower the slip, but on a fair day like today, a lone stranger braving the weather just for the sake of a raffle was more suspicious than anything. Luckily, this was not the case, and people spilled onto the streets from every house, creating the perfect camouflage in which to hide. And hopefully, he added to himself, to sneak away the daughter of the most dangerous gangster in the city.

Giving a quick glance of his surroundings, Booker reassured himself that he wasn’t being followed, and ambled slowly throughout the fair, even stopping once in a while, pretending to peruse the contents of this stand or another. He made sure that his general direction was always toward the location divulged to him by R.L. A part of him wondered what he was getting himself into, if his new employer was so influential as to have gained the knowledge of Comstock’s true hideout, then he really must be in the thick of it now.

That was another reason why Comstock had been such a thorn in the ass of the Columbia Police. His influence was such that members of his gang almost worshipped him. It was this respect and awe, instead of fear, that led to his intense protection by those around him. It was a regular occurrence now for the CPD to attempt a raid on a suspected “Comstock House” only to discover that it was yet another red herring, set up by the gang members in order for their beloved boss to escape to another safe house. Even the wives were in on it, willingly throwing themselves in front of their leader for the sake of his safety, often at the cost of their own lives. The Police Chief, Cornelius Slate, was rumored to have a history with the Mobster, and as such he was merciless with Comstock’s followers. It was a bloody war all right. Booker wondered again if he had made the wrong decision.

He instinctively ducked his head, pretending to study the prices of goods in front of him, as two such policemen walked by casually. He may not be any friend to Comstock and his quasi-religious gang, but he doubted the Columbia Police Department would be pleased to see him, either.

Once he was sure the danger was past, Booker slipped out of the crowd and into a nearly empty side street. It was more of an alleyway, really, but that meant fewer people were likely to come back here, and that’s exactly what Booker was hoping for. He glanced at the address on the letter again and compared it to the numbers on the houses around him. He frowned as he realized he couldn’t seem to locate the right street the safe house would be on. Frowning, he carefully retraced his steps, all too aware that once the raffle ended, the crowds would disperse and it was more than likely that the guards who had shirked their posts would soon return and attempt to be even more vigilant than before, in some desperate ploy to rid themselves of any lingering guilt over their desertion.

Frustrated, he stopped at an intersection between two equally shabby buildings and stared at the address in his hands, mouthing the numbers to himself. Damn thing had to be around here somewhere...

He barely noticed the couple until they were upon him, and then all he caught was a flash of red hair and two sets of probing green eyes that were gone in an instant as Booker stumbled backwards, propelled by the force of the man’s shoulder running into him. He automatically threw out a hand to steady himself, and found that he had stumbled into what he’d thought was just a particularly unruly bunch of shrubs. In reality, the two overgrown hedges he’d just fallen through were actually concealing a new pathway that hadn’t been visible to him before. The once-cobblestone road was now almost completely covered in overgrowth, branches and vines sticking every which way, at times concealing the rest of the path entirely. Booker had never been so grateful to have been pushed aside by a rude stranger.

“If I wanted to hide a secret safe house, this is probably where I’d put it,” he mused to himself. Out of habit, he patted his pistol in its holster, adjusted his hat, and strode off purposefully into the undergrowth.

It looked as though no one had been this way in ages. Booker thought that was a bit odd, considering that this was supposed to be some sort of secret hideout where people actually stayed. Unless they wanted it to appear that way, to discourage any curious strangers. That, at least, made sense. However, it was nearly impossible to get through some of the thickly overgrown foliage blocking his way. He swore some of the plants were actually woven together, as if to specifically block his passage through the abandoned path.

The buildings on either side dropped away suddenly, and a high brick wall took its place. Booker wondered if this had once been the driveway to some sort of secluded mansion. That would certainly explain the great amount of secrecy this place seemed to be shrouded in. And where were those guards his employer had spoken of?

Rounding a corner, Booker was suddenly confronted by a large, imposing set of iron gates, absolutely covered in ivy. “What the hell is this, Sleeping Beauty?” he grumbled, stepping forward to take stock of the situation. There seemed to be no way past the gates, and when Booker tried pushing on them, a large chain with an equally large lock clanked against the bars. Booker sighed and squinted up at the gate, which seemed to have some sort of name written in the design of the metal.

“M...mem...memorial...” he attempted, but gave up when the ivy obscured the rest of the words. “Okay then. Strange place to hide a kid. Let’s see if we can find a way around this gate.” Booker stepped forward and plunged his hand through the vines until he felt solid metal under his hand. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the ground and grabbed a thick handful of ivy. He scrabbled to gain a purchase with his feet, when the ivy under his hand snapped and he fell down on his back, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the cobblestones.

“Agh! Jesus.” Booker lay still a moment, getting his breath back. The sun was nearly past its peak; it couldn’t be long before the guards returned. He needed to get moving, fast.

As he moved to stand up, he noticed a strange hole in the ivy at one edge of the gate. Curious, he moved over to investigate. There seemed to be a portion of the ivy that had been specifically removed, with only a few strands haphazardly covering the rest. When Booker pushed these aside, he discovered a decent gap in the gates, where one could conceivably crawl through, if needed.

“Of course,” Booker grumbled in irritation, squeezing through the space. Who was that for? He stood up and almost immediately dropped to his knees again. He’d seen something moving through the trees.

The foliage that had been working so hard against him now turned to his advantage, concealing his appearance on the scene as a guard slowly rounded the edge of the enormous house he was patrolling. Booker squinted through the leaves at the guard. He wasn’t wearing a uniform he was familiar with; was he some sort of private soldier? Booker’s eyes strayed to the tommy gun in the man’s hands, no doubt fully loaded. He winced. No reason to tangle with that one, then.

As the man turned the corner of the house, Booker saw a strange design sewed onto the back of the man’s dark gray uniform. It looked like...a pair of wings? What was that about?

No matter. Booker shook himself lightly and, when he was certain the coast was clear, trotted lightly across the grass to the front door of the large building.

He stared upward, scanning for any sign of detection, or any life at all. Nothing. It seemed as if the place was abandoned. Why in the world was a dump like this so heavily guarded? This had better not be a wild goose chase.

There was a number next to the door, indicating its address. Booker pulled out his letter and compared the two. 0451. They matched. Booker shrugged, and put the letter away. It wasn’t his place to judge where powerful gangsters hid their daughters. He had a job to do.

Suddenly, Booker heard footsteps coming around the edge of the house. He cursed under his breath and looked for a place to hide. The area around the house was significantly less overgrown, and all the windows were closed. He briefly considered breaking one and getting in that way, but the sentry would surely notice the damage. In desperation, Booker seized the doorknob on the house and twisted.

It opened, and he stumbled inside, nearly slamming the door behind him. He waited, breath caught in his throat. The sentry strolled by slowly, humming a tune under his breath. He gave no indication that he sensed anything amiss.  
Booker heaved an enormous sigh of relief and rested his forehead against the faded wood of the door. “Close call,” he murmured to it. “At least I’m inside...let’s see what this haunted house has in store for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm sorry the chapters are so short. I just keep throwing them out there so people have something to read. Next time: We meet Elizabeth!


	4. Murder of Crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Booker found the girl, but now he has to fight his way out if he wants to leave with her- but who are these mysterious soldiers with the crow insignia?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER  
> Gun fights, yeah! I'm fairly pleased with how this chapter went- normally I suck at action scenes. Also, a new character introduced!  
> Don't be afraid to comment! Kudos are also quite welcome!

The inside of the place seemed as deserted as the outside. Dust piled in the corners and cobwebs hung from what was once a very beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Its crystals were dulled by darkness and lack of a proper dusting. Booker opened his mouth to call out, but stopped himself. No telling who else occupied the place besides his mark. Booker drew his pistol slowly, and headed for the stairs.

Still no sign of life. What the hell was this place, anyway? Booker rounded a corner and stopped short. A large, heavy-looking metal door sat at the end of the hallway. He didn’t get a chance to absorb much more than that, because the two sentries posted in front of it lifted their guns and started shooting.

Booker threw himself sideways, back around the edge of the hallway. A few bullets sent chunks of plaster flying off the walls, and Booker scrambled up, pulling a small pocketknife out of his coat. He flattened himself against the wall and stuck a foot out, sending the first man to come running around the corner sprawling. A quick shot to the back of the head finished him, and Booker whirled in time to see the second soldier pointing his gun at him. Instead of running away, Booker tackled the man, and they both went down in a pile of limbs. A strong hand latched onto his wrist and attempted to wrest his knife from him, his pistol dropped in the fall. Booker grunted and sank his teeth into the man’s fingers, who howled and beat him in the head with his free hand. He attempted to roll over and pin the P.I. under him, but his grip had been loosened from the bite, and Booker yanked his hand free and plunged the knife into the man’s eye.

He screamed, blood spattering the other man’s face, but Booker leaned on his hand, pushing the blade deeper into the socket until the soldier’s struggles ceased and he lay limp.

Panting, Booker rolled off the dead soldier and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He stood slowly, feeling a throbbing headache from the guard’s assault on his head and the other blows he sustained from the struggle. He left his knife in the corpse’s eye and picked up his tommy gun, checking the ammunition that was left. He wiped his face on the inside of his coat, noticing as he did so that there was a loud, wailing alarm going off somewhere in the building. Booker cursed under his breath and grabbed his pistol, stuffing it in his pocket and making a beeline for the door.

He didn’t have time to wonder why someone would go to such extreme lengths to keep a single person from the rest of the world. He grabbed the wheel in the center of the door and heaved with all his strength, and slowly it eeked open. Booker gave himself just enough room to get inside and shoved the door shut just as he heard the front door of the house open.

He took off down the corridor, barely noticing that the interior of the house had completely changed. What was once dessicated opulence changed into a more utilitarian nature. The walls were bare concrete, and the floor slanted slowly downward. Was he underground? There was enough of a chill in the air that he guessed so.

Thankfully, it was mostly a straight shot to the bottom, and soon Booker was standing in front of another door, this one more forbidding than the last. There was a warning sign above it, cautioning on pain of extremely violent death not to enter this room, and a large chain with a lock attached was wound around the handle. Booker cursed under his breath and seized the chain, only to have the lock fall to his feet, already opened.

“What...” Booker didn’t get a chance to complete his thought, because the door was pushed open and a girl fell into his arms.

“Huh?! Who- You’re not-” the girl scrambled away, eyes wide in astonishment and confusion. She was lugging a large suitcase behind her, and over her shoulder Booker could see part of a large room that had been completely trashed.

“Elizabeth Comstock?” he asked quickly, though he already knew the answer. He couldn’t mistake those blue eyes.

The girl confirmed his suspicions a moment later by nodding uncertainly and gripping her suitcase a little tighter. “Who...who are you?” she asked, looking poised to run. “How did you find this place?”

Booker waved a hand impatiently and reached out to take her arm. “That doesn’t matter. We have to get out of here, now.”

Elizabeth backed away from his hand, but something in her eyes changed. “Yes, we do,” she agreed easily. Booker blinked in surprise. His questions were answered a moment later when she continued, “I’ve been trying to get out of this place for years. Whoever you are, you’re my knight in shining armor.”

Booker snorted and for the first time felt a twinge of guilt. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said dryly. “But in any case, I may have accidentally tripped an alarm on my way here. Are there any escape routes back the way you came?”

Elizabeth shook her head immediately, and Booker’s stomach sank. “No. I would know if there were,” she said grimly. “After all, I’ve spent almost all of my life here.”

Booker raised his eyebrows at that, but didn’t have time to comment as he heard the door on the other side of the hall open, and the sound of pounding feet reached them. Quickly, he pushed the girl back through the doorway and slammed it shut, trapping them both inside.

“What’s going on?” Elizabeth said, alarmed. Booker held out his pistol, and she stared at it, mouth open. Booker sighed in exasperation and stuffed it into her hand. “Go hide somewhere,” he ordered. “There’s going to be a lot of trouble coming through that door in a minute and it’ll do you no good to be in the middle of it.” He shooed her away as the first of the bodies slammed against the door. Elizabeth let out a squeak at the sound and scurried away as quickly as she could, clutching the pistol to her chest. Booker looked around for something to block the door with. He appeared to be in a sort of library, with several couches and easy chairs sitting around for comfortable reading. He took one of these and pushed it against the door, grunting with the effort as another soldier slammed against the door. He quickly followed the couch with several armchairs, and a small bookcase, just to be certain. Then, he took shelter behind another set of shelves and waited.

After a few moments, the beating against the door stopped. Booker tensed, suspicious of the sudden silence. He strained his ears, and could barely make out the sound of murmuring voices.

Then, the world exploded.

The force of the blast threw Booker backwards alongside his makeshift barricade and the door itself. He landed heavily on one arm, crying out as he felt something break. Inside, his mind was racing as he attempted to get to his feet. First strike and already he was injured. This was not going to turn out well.

Soldiers poured through the opening, masks on to breathe through the thick smoke and dust from the explosion. Booker pulled the scarf around his neck up to cover his nose and mouth, and started shooting.

He hit one or two men before the others saw him and ran for cover. Their return fire was vicious and relentless, and Booker was hard pressed to take any down. He ducked down behind his bookshelf, which was beginning to look the worse for wear, and considered his few options.

He could continue on like this until he ran out of ammunition and the soldiers killed him. He could also attempt to take Elizabeth hostage and try to use her as a bargaining chip to escape. That idea appealed to him, but there was no way to find her without the notice of soldiers. Also, he remembered, she had his pistol.

He groaned inwardly. He wasn’t sure how much longer this could go on. He stared up at the electric lights on the ceiling, defeated. If only there was a way to conceal himself from their presence...

Booker stiffened as an idea hit him. It just might work...but it would take good timing. Moving ever so carefully, Booker turned over and peeked around the edge of the bookshelf. He had maybe three seconds before the bullets started flying in that direction, but it was enough. He sat back, grinning. Now all he had to do was aim.

And with someone as well-versed in weaponry as Booker DeWitt, accuracy wasn’t a problem.

He hit the electrical box next to the door with five bullets, and the place went dark. There were startled shouts as the men realized what was going on, but Booker didn’t wait for them to figure it out. He already knew he was underground, and aside from a single skylight near the center of the library, the place was pitch dark.

Now the next challenge was to find Elizabeth and get out before anyone got the lights fixed. Or they found him. Booker swallowed. He hoped he was fast enough.

Booker ran lightly behind the bookshelves, hardly daring to whisper Elizabeth’s name to the shadows. He was forced to avoid places where the enraged voices of the soldiers were too loud, and soon found himself near the back of the library. He spotted the girl’s suitcase around the corner of a shelf, and almost called out her name when a loud scream pierced through the confusion. Booker cursed and charged back through the library, stopping short when he saw the scene unfolding before him.

Underneath the skylight, Elizabeth was struggling madly against the iron grip of a man Booker immediately identified as the leader of the group of soldiers; he was wearing an all-black uniform, and radiated an air of authority. His gloves, Booker noticed, had clawed tips on them, and there was an unfamiliar insignia on the shoulder of his uniform. It looked like...some kind of bird. A crow?

“Tell us where he is,” the man hissed, bringing his face close to Elizabeth’s. Booker could see the terror in her eyes, but her voice was steady as she replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Let me go!”

The officer leered and dragged a claw down her cheek, not hard enough to break the skin. Elizabeth whimpered, and he sniggered. “What’s the matter, darling?” he asked her, sickly sweet. “You afraid of the big bad Crow? Don’t worry, the Murder’ll take good care of you...”

The man’s next words were cut off in a loud screech as his leg was ripped apart by a spray of bullets. Booker tried to aim low to avoid hurting Elizabeth, but otherwise he would’ve killed the man in an instant. Elizabeth fell backwards, staring in blank horror at the gored mess of the man’s leg. There was blood on her skirt.

Booker took all of the details in and more as he charged into the circle of light, elbowing one man in the face and kicking another in the stomach. He scrabbled for his penknife and almost got a claw in the leg from the officer on the floor. Cursing, Booker remembered that he’d left his knife in the dead guard’s eyeball. He was too distracted to block the punch that came flying out of nowhere and hit him directly in the jaw.

Lights exploded behind his eyes, and he fell hard, cracking his head on the stone floor. Booker thought he fell unconscious for a few seconds, because when he came to, the barrel of a gun was being pointed at his face.

He stayed very still, staring up at the officer, whose face was twisted into a rage-filled snarl. Sweat was pouring down his face, and dimly Booker realized that he was probably in a lot of pain. The thought filled him with a vicious glee, and he grinned savagely up at what was most certainly imminent death.

“No! Please don’t kill him!” Elizabeth screamed, thrashing against the grip of two of the surviving soldiers. “Let him go! I beg you!”

The officer turned to spit carelessly in her direction, when suddenly his face changed. He appeared to be focusing intently on something only he could hear. A frustrated growl ripped from his throat, and he kicked Booker angrily in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He leaned close to the wheezing man on the floor, and actually smiled.

“You’re lucky today, you ugly bastard,” he sneered, his fetid breath washing over Booker. “The boss man has been kind enough to let you live. He’s even letting you take the girl, as a show of good faith.” The officer laughed raucously, and all the other men joined in. “Don’t be thinkin’ this means you’re free ‘n’ clear, though. He’s got plans for you. I bet you won’t make it through to next week. He likes to...play with his victims before he finishes ‘em off. Likes to see their faces as he kills ‘em slow. At least I would’ve done it quick.” He straightened up abruptly and jerked his head. The men holding Elizabeth released her, and she backed away shakily, face pale.

“C’mon, boys. Our job’s done here.” The officer grinned nastily and limped away, assisted on either side by one of his men. Booker lay still, just staring at the pinpoint of light above him that seemed to be getting smaller with every moment. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a pair of blue eyes and a pale, worried face.

\----

“So...he has my daughter.”

“Yes.” The man who answered this did not bandy his words. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, quietly respectful. The glint of the metal patch over his right eye gave him an air of aloof malevolence, as though he only gave respect to the man in front of him because it suited his purposes. He wore a dark charcoal gray suit, perfectly shined black shoes, and a fedora on which gleamed one long, black feather.

“I have faith in your abilities, of course.” The man addressing him now turned, a fat cigar hanging out of one side of his mouth. Though Zachary Comstock was well into his sixties, he had a glare that could cut through steel. However, there was only one person who dared stare straight back, and the mobster was looking at him.

“Songbird.” Comstock puffed on his cigar and stared hard at the assassin. “You will bring her back, or it’s your life at stake. I trust we’re clear?”

“Crystal.” Songbird answered softly, the corners of his mouth curling. Comstock nodded shortly and dismissed him.

Songbird exited Comstock’s office, snapping his gloved fingers sharply to signal his two soldiers to follow him. He strode down the corridor, a slight smirk on his otherwise expressionless face. Booker DeWitt. His grin widened, and the look made the sentries on either side of the door flinch as he walked by.  
This was going to be fun.


End file.
